


Love Is In The Small Things

by Fightyourdragon



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Getting Together, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-03
Updated: 2020-03-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:27:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22996165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fightyourdragon/pseuds/Fightyourdragon
Summary: Our boys being their usual mutually pining selves, then finally getting their acts together. Let's be honest, you're just here for the make-up sex! Me too, tbh...Basically, a fix-it fix for the end of "Rare Species."
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 16
Kudos: 271





	Love Is In The Small Things

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hedwig_Dordt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hedwig_Dordt/gifts).



> All the thanks to Hedwig_Dordt for her eternal patience and cheer leading, as this fandom has dragged me back into writing after a few year break. She has been with me since I started writing in the first place- all praise for an amazing beta reader!

Jaskier

_ I’m trying to work out what pleases me _ …Jaskier considers this, looking out at the mountains long after Geralt leaves him for another round of what is sure to be fabulous, energetic sex. For his part, Geralt clearly knows the answer. Sadly, it lies in the opposite direction of himself. Likely, Geralt thought he’d been joking about getting away to the coast. 

Jaskier squirms just thinking about what will be happening in that tent before long, heat tingling down his spine as he recalls the scene in the wrecked house. Yennefer, her head thrown back as Geralt thrust his hips upward, lifting her over and over as if she weighed nothing. The strength, the abandon...he’d started composing a ballad to Geralt’s hips before he could consciously stop himself.

Well, another ballad. Truth be told, there were dozens of songs related to Geralt’s physique that the world would never hear. Geralt would kill him for one, and for another he might have to acknowledge that he knows. He couldn’t possibly pretend to be  _ that _ dense. Or perhaps he could, because apparently a decade or so of Jaskier bathing him, massaging his tense muscles, rubbing chamomile literally everywhere except on that gorgeous cock which Geralt seems perfectly comfortable displaying during said baths and massages, has done nothing to clue him in to the fact that Jaskier’s feelings are not entirely platonic. Or at least, he hasn’t let on he knows. 

Honestly, does he think this bizarre sort of casual intimacy is normal? He must, though. Either that, or he is simply utterly and completely not interested in any sort of romantic dalliance and has decided in this one area he will spare Jaskier’s feelings.  _ Or _ , he is protecting his own. Because Geralt has feelings, stories about Witchers be damned. He’s just extraordinarily good at masking them. 

Jaskier sighs, picks up his lute and begins to idly strum it quietly, not loud enough that it could mask any sounds of pleasure that may drift his way. Oddly, as much as it confuses him to admit it, Geralt’s pleasure  _ is _ what pleases him.  _ Do what pleases you while you can.  _ Well, he supposes he already does that. Excels at it, in fact. He is the truest sort of hedonist, eternally chasing his desires and thrilling in the chase itself, more than the actual capture. He adores his music, the women he woos and beds, lovely clothing, good food, the attention his songs bring him, and the fame they have brought both himself and Geralt. He loves the danger and the thrill of being allowed to watch Geralt in action: the lethal beauty of his swordsmanship, the feral intensity of his movements, the power of his magic, the devastating ache of a desire that will never be fulfilled. 

Yes, even that. There is something lovely and addictive about what he feels for Geralt, yet knows he can never have. It’s a poetic sort of sadness, a gorgeous pain, like being bound and teased to the point of release yet never being allowed to have it. He shivers, and gets up to find some privacy of his own. 

He grabs a blanket, then wanders over behind a copse of trees and finds a nice trunk to lean back on. He arranges the blanket, then unlaces his breeches and slips his hand in, letting his mind wander to the many things that give him that desperate sort of pleasure. 

Geralt showing off the head of some disgusting beast, covered in gore but  _ smiling _ , a smile Jaskier would swear no one else gets to see. Hugging Jaskier close for a moment, one arm around his shoulder, laughing as he explains the kill. 

Geralt in any one of his beloved baths, head leaned back, neck exposed, closing his eyes with Jaskier in the room. Allowing himself to be vulnerable.  _ Trusting _ Jaskier not to hurt him. The way he always tips his head to the side just as Jaskier is washing his hair, rubs it along Jaskier’s jaw with a single contented hmmm that goes straight to Jaskier’s inevitable yet always ignored erection.

The smooth swell of his muscles beneath Jaskier’s string-calloused fingers as Jaskier rubs healing salves and ointments into his wounds, the rough texture of the existing scars. The heat of his skin, the softness of his sighs, the golden eyes focused on him with some unreadable expression. 

The scent of him - gods, the indescribable, heady scent of Geralt that exists beneath whatever grime he is covered with, but has Jaskier nearly drunk on it while they are sharing a bed after they had the luxury of bathing. 

The way Geralt lurks in the back of any given room while Jaskier sings his praises, eyes fixed on him, and Jaskier feels as if he is performing for an audience of one. 

Jaskier licks his palm and strokes himself harder, calls to mind the one memory that is guaranteed a spectacular finish. They had had too much to drink. Far, far too much, but “Toss A Coin To Your Witcher” was extremely popular in this village and there was coin to prove it. They managed to stumble up to their room, but barely. There was only one bed, and Geralt had tripped back onto it while attempting to remove his boots. Jaskier had teased him, though he hardly faired better. When he collapsed onto the bed himself, Geralt had attacked him in some sort of play wrestling match that ended with Jaskier laughing and pinned beneath him. Geralt had suddenly stilled, and leaned down to brush his nose along Jaskier’s, and for a moment they were sharing breath and Jaskier had frozen and hoped and  _ wanted... _ but then Geralt had blinked as if he were coming out of some kind of trance. He pulled back, ran the tip of one finger across Jaskier’s lips, let out a soft hmmm that sounded like ‘no,’ then dropped to one side.  _ Ah, there we go, there’s the heartbreak you smell of, _ Jaskier had thought. But rather than pull away, Geralt had pulled Jaskier in to rest against his chest and wrapped his arms around Jaskier’s waist, and fallen asleep. In the morning he was gone, and they hadn’t seen each other for nearly a year, and they had never spoken of it again. 

Still, the memory of that almost kiss, the scent and the heat of him, that sleepy embrace that felt like the closest thing Geralt would ever come to love...it’s enough to have Jaskier trembling and coming, biting his lip to add to the pain and pleasure of it all. In the end though, despite knowing this is all he will ever have, it’s enough. Or at least, it’s enough to keep him hoping. After all, Geralt is only Yennefer’s for tonight. He is Jaskier’s always. 

  
  


Geralt

Geralt takes a detour on his way to find Yennefer. He should check on Roach before he turns in, after all. He just needs a few minutes of rare and blessed silence - which is practically nonexistent with Jaskier and Yennefer in close proximity - to settle his thoughts. Arrange might be a better term, he hasn’t felt settled since Jaskier plopped down in front of him and his reaction to realizing Geralt’s nature was, “Oh, fun!” 

_ Fun.  _ Not terrifying, or unnatural, or even dangerous. He just sat there, with that smile like the glint of sunlight off a blade, and invited himself along for the journey. Jaskier was...intriguing. For that, more than anything else, Geralt let him stay. Well, that and because he was sure Jaskier would simply leave once he’d used him for writing material. Certainly once the bard sorted out that Geralt was never going to be anything like the hero Jaskier promised he would make him out to be. That Geralt was cold, vicious, unfeeling and heartless. A butcher, and nothing more. No one worth his time. 

Truthfully, he’d expected Jaskier to run immediately after he’d nearly been killed by elves. Instead he’d been absolutely vibrating with excitement, and set to composing a ludicrous song on his new lute. An obnoxious tune that got into Geralt’s head against his will, much like Jaskier himself. He wanted to tell Jaskier to leave, nothing good could come of spending time with Geralt, but somehow he just...couldn’t. No one had genuinely  _ wanted _ to be near him, at least without paying him or being paid by him, in so very, very long. And there was Jaskier, teasing him and smiling at him, walking ahead with a careless sort of saunter, not a whiff of fear on him despite the killer at his back. Yes, he should’ve made Jaskier leave and he knew it, but despite his better instincts he allowed himself something new- selfishness. 

He sighs and leans his head against Roach’s neck, idly running his fingers down her mane. “What pleases him...hmmm. Well just about everything pleases him, doesn’t it?” 

Roach cranes her head around and eyes him in what feels like reproach. Even his horse has managed some sort of “Geralt you are such a stupid fuck” look. He blames Jaskier for this, entirely. She doubtless picked it up from him. “We can’t do it, you know we can’t. There’s no time to get away to the coast. There will never be time, I can’t- not with- I have to-” He growls in frustration, unable to explain it even to his horse. He can never be  _ that, _ to Jaskier. Someone who can whisk him away for a vacation, live a life normal enough for even the possibility. Can never be someone who is allowed what pleases him most. 

Geralt closes his eyes and grits his teeth, trying unsuccessfully slam shut the chest in his mind where he hides all of the things he feels for Jaskier, and should not. It doesn’t work. He hasn’t unpacked it, savored the contents, then put them all safely away again in far too long and they have become disordered and riotous, refusing to be contained. Jaskier thinks his feelings are hidden as well, but they are not. Jaskier is terrible at hiding a single emotion, least of all those pertaining to his favorite ballad topics of sex and love. 

Geralt knows  _ exactly _ how much Jaskier wants him. Has been able to smell it on him for years, hear it in the cadence of his heartbeat, see it in the flush of his skin. Especially when they are in close quarters, alone, without the shields and distractions of the outside world. Where it is hardest for Geralt to keep his own desire secret. He meant it all those years ago when he'd said the last thing he wants is anyone needing him, or him needing them. And yet here they are, indeed. It still shakes him, terrifies him like nothing has since he became  _ this _ , how much Jaskier means to him. He craves the addictive way Jaskier will casually touch him in passing, the complete lack of revulsion on his face as he rubs salve on his wounds, the way his talented fingers linger like a caress over scar tissue during one of his massages. 

Despite his senses, he had still spent the span of several years and crossing paths waiting for Jaskier to laugh in his face, say it had all been a grand joke for story material. But it never happened, and reluctantly he has come to trust the man, to allow himself the indulgence of his company as he would a fine wine. But like wine, too much can be a dangerous thing indeed. The more of Jaskier he gets, the more wants, and the harder it gets to leave him. The harder to resist giving in to what he wants, what they both want. 

He's come close, so very close, to giving in. Nights when he's spent hours watching Jaskier sing his praises, dancing about and unbearably beautiful in the lamplight as he flirts and teases and earns them coin for room and board. When his hands clench into fists against the desire to bury them in those wild curls, push Jaskier into a wall and just take what he knows will be freely given. When Jaskier tumbles into their room, loose and pliable with too much ale, pouts and asks Geralt to put him to bed, his eyes sparkling with laughter. They way those eyes widen with surprise the nights Geralt hmmms and actually does it, gently strips him down to almost nothing and arranges the pillow just right, then climbs in and tucks Jaskier securely against his chest, spooning up so his breath is hot against the back of Jaskier's neck. Those nights are both the best, and the worst. 

He can’t help but inhale deeply on those nights, savoring the scent that is Jaskier’s alone. Something akin to fresh cut grass, sun-warmed fields, and the approach of rain. He can feel Jaskier’s heart rabbiting in his chest, especially when Geralt strokes his fingers over any skin he can reach, subtly, in a manner that could be purely accidental or done in his sleep. Sometimes when Jaskier thinks he has fallen asleep, he will shift back, wriggle in even more closely, run his fingers over Geralt’s skin in return as Geralt bites tongue hard to prevent himself from saying any of the things he truly wants to.  _ Turn around. Let me taste you. Let me take you, mark you, keep you. Tell me you want me, tell me I’m not a monster, tell me I’m worthy of you.  _

Geralt bangs his forehead against Roach’s shoulder. Knows this train of thought is pointless. Of the two of them, Yennefer is the safer choice. He feels drawn to her, cares for her, and even though he suspects she could kill him if she wanted she could never destroy him the way Jaskier could. He can give himself over to her, and come out unscathed. He’s proven that over the years of their paths crossing as well. So with one last look towards where he left Jaskier, he turns and heads for Yennefer’s tent. 

  
  


Geralt and Jaskier

  
  


Geralt doesn’t make it twelve hours before he turns around and heads back to track Jaskier. He thought that by now he was familiar with regret, with being filled with self-hatred, with the sort of anger and grief that tears at what is left of his soul. This is the sick, gut twisting sensation that sets him to seeking out anything and everything that deserves to die and hacking into it with extra violence, screaming out his pain in the only way he knows how. That has him craving new scars, a sort of penance that he knows will never be enough. He’s hurt Jaskier over the years in minor ways, snipped at him during fights or made a dig at his singing, but never like this. Never been the witness of actual heartbreak, but that’s what it had been when Geralt said he wished they’d never met. It was like something cracked, the bard had physically staggered a bit, winced like a blade had just slipped between his ribs. 

But Geralt had been so frustrated, so angry, and Jaskier had been an easy target. It was unforgivable, and he knows it. Knows that now, all of his fantasies will remain just that now that Jaskier finally sees him for the monster he truly is. But he doesn’t know if he will survive what is coming next, and he can’t let Jaskier go the rest of his life believing Geralt hated him. He’ll just apologize, tell Jaskier that he didn’t mean it- that Jaskier is the best thing that ever happened to him, that he is lovely and brave and everything he makes Geralt himself out to be in his songs. And then he will leave for good. 

Jaskier sits idly on the bench in front of the abandoned home, one of several he’d passed along his aimless way, plucking at his lute strings and wondering that there can be sunshine when he feels like this. The weather is not at all cooperating with the heart-wrenching song he’s composing in his mind. It will be an epic sweeping piece, full of unrequited love and loss. Women will weep when they hear it, giving their partners a chance to hold them close and soothe them, and it will be certain to earn him coin as well as spare weeping women. That is, once he can conceive of romance again. 

The thing is, he should be used to heartbreak by now. He’s loved- or at least really really lusted after- so many people by now. Beautiful women as well as a few beautiful men, sometimes for a day and sometimes for months at a time, all inevitably ending due to his wanderlust. This though, this is nothing like he’s felt before. He feels shredded, like he’s lost something essential and cherished even though he never had anything with Geralt in the first place- not like  _ that _ , anyway. It’s more like...the loss of hope, of a dream. He blinks back a few tears and swallows around the thick feeling in his throat. Geralt has been angry with him before, but he’s never said such awful things, like he  _ wanted _ Jaskier in pain. And now Jaskier might never see him again, and the thought is like an open wound. He closes his eyes against the offending light and tries to put words to what he is feeling. He’s so focused on plucking out the haunting new tune that he doesn’t even notice the hoofbeats until they are right in front of him. 

Jaskier, as always, is distressingly easy to track. The sight of him bathed in sunlight, playing something new and melancholy, gives Geralt pause for a few moments. He stops a ways off and just watches, and it feels like he can breathe again. This may be the last time he gets to watch the bard work, and he wants to enjoy it for a bit. His voice really is lovely, Geralt should definitely tell him that, in case they never meet again. He takes a deep breath and steels himself for the anger that is sure to come, and guides Roach down into the clearing. 

“Geralt?” Jaskier asks stupidly, blinking into the light as the man dismounts from Roach and approaches slowly, his expression both determined and unaccountably soft at the same time.  _ Oh no, he doesn’t get to just show up with puppy dog eyes _ . The sorrow he was feeling is suddenly replaced with indignation. “What are you doing here? I thought you never wanted to see me again. Or in the first place really, which is TOTALLY unfair, because I have done nothing but make people hate you less, and frankly-!” 

Geralt kneels down in front of Jaskier and reaches out to slap a hand over the man’s mouth before he really has a chance to get going, because if Geralt doesn’t get this out  _ now _ he might never do it. “Jaskier, will you be quiet for once in your life and just let me talk?” he growls. 

Jaskier pulls back, affronted. “For once in-”

Geralt reaches his free hand out to grip the back of Jaskier’s neck so he can’t escape the other covering his mouth. He grits his teeth when Jaskier licks his hand, because of course he does. “Do you want to hear me apologize or not?” he demands, sounding far sharper than he’d intended. Great, he’s fucking this up already. 

Jaskier’s eyes widen in surprise, and he nods. Geralt notes with an extra twist of guilt that he’s been crying. He takes a calming breath and tries again. “I’m glad that I met you. Without you I’d never know what it feels like to be seen as....human. When I’m with you, I can almost believe I’m not a monster. You don’t flinch when you touch me. You’re not afraid of me. You...you want me, but not like most people want me. You want more than just my body. I don’t think anyone has ever loved me until you.” He feels a rush of terror along with the statement, hadn’t planned to say it at all, but it rings true. “Do you have any idea what you do to me? I know all I do is hurt you, and I’ll go before I can do it again. I just needed you to know that I don’t hate you.” Geralt slowly releases Jaskier then turns to go, feeling as if he’s just defeated an army of Selkimore. 

Jaskier gapes at Geralt’s back, shock and  _ oh gods fuck yes  _ fighting for dominance in his mind. “Geralt don’t you fucking  _ dare _ move!” he orders. 

Geralt freezes, finding himself incapable of disobeying. He owes Jaskier a tongue-lashing before he goes, he supposes. And not in a good way. He cringes at the awful humor, blaming Jaskier entirely for twisting his mind in this manner. 

_ He wants me too,  _ Jaskier marvels.  _ He must. He would never have returned otherwise.  _ He feels the balance of power taking a rare dip in his direction, and allows himself a moment to re-arrange his entire universe where it comes to Geralt, who he swears has never listened to him before. Oh, but this could be fun. “That’s it? You think you can just show up here and tell me you’re sorry and I’ll fall into your arms like some damsel in a poem? Well let me tell you, that is not what is going to happen here.” He stands and points at the ground. “Turn around and get your gorgeous ass back here!” 

Geralt feels an unfamiliar rush of hope as he turns and does as asked. He owes Jaskier this much, and there is something unfamiliar and unexpectedly arousing about being ordered about. Unsure of what to do exactly, he drops to his knees again and looks up at Jaskier with what he hopes translates as penitence and trust. 

Jaskier sucks in a ragged breath at the sight. He knows Geralt has made himself vulnerable, is trusting him more than he’s trusted anyone. Is willing to let Jaskier hurt him, turn him away, whatever Jaskier needs. He doesn’t plan to abuse it, but he feels he’s allowed to have a bit of fun within reason. “Say it again.”

“Which part?” Geralt grits out, torn between bolting and giving in to the unexpected relief of just doing as Jaskier asks. 

“The part about being sorry,” Jaskier prompts, taking a step closer. “I’m not sure those exact words even came out.”

“I’m sorry I hurt you. I’m sorry every time I hurt you,” Geralt adds, not knowing what to do with the unexpected thrill of hope that has his every sense keyed up and focused on Jaskier. 

“Good. Now tell me about my singing, Geralt.” He grins at the look of confusion on the Witcher’s face at the change of subject. “Tell me what you really think about it,” he encourages, stepping close enough to tip Geralt’s chin up with the tip of one finger, marveling at how pliant the other man is in this moment. And how painfully attractive. This is happening, it’s actually happening, he thinks, knowing that when he asks for what he really wants Geralt’s iron resolve will shatter like spun glass. 

“I could never tire of hearing you sing my praises,” Geralt replies with a crooked smile, attempting to gain some sort of control over the moment while somehow reveling in the knowledge that he is going to fail completely. 

“Do better,” Jaskier tsks, letting his hand slide into the tangle of Geralt’s hair. 

“Do you know why I like to sit in the back of the room while you sing? It’s so no one will notice how hard it gets me,” Geralt rumbles, knowing that his voice can do the exact same thing to Jaskier. 

“Fuck,” Jaskier manages, his fingers tightening into a fist. 

Geralt stands, but doesn’t move away. “If you want,” he replies, settling his hands tentatively on Jaskier’s waist.  _ Please want _ , he begs silently, knowing this is a bad idea and no longer caring. Whatever the price, he will pay it. 

Jaskier hesitates for a final moment before launching himself the few inches into Geralt’s embrace. “I hate you so much,” he grits into the delicious stubble of Geralt’s jaw before rasping his tongue over it, then sucking on the delicate skin beneath his ear. He smells so good, and Jaskier can’t help but press closer and let out a surprised little whimper when Geralt responds by reaching down and gripping his ass firmly. 

“You don’t,” Geralt counters, leaning in so their foreheads are touching as he rubs their noses together. They are so close he can nearly taste Jaskier’s breath, and the rush of desire that overtakes him is so strong it feels very nearly like magic. 

The move is so unexpectedly tender that Jaskier can’t help but melt further into him. So this is that swooning he is so fond of writing about, he thinks. “I don’t,” he admits. It’s the last coherent speech he manages for a while, because suddenly he is being lifted up and their first kiss is more of him squeaking against Geralt’s lips and scrabbling to get his legs around Geralt’s waist and arms around his neck. 

Geralt drowns out Jaskier’s imminent protest by sealing their mouths together and oh, the bard tastes every bit as good as he’d imagined. Better. Like something indescribable and addictive and he wants more, wants for this to go on forever. Jaskier’s lips are full and soft, perfect for nibbling and sucking, and he makes gorgeous noises when Geralt runs his tongue along the roof of his mouth, seals their lips together and exhales so Jaskier can share his very breath. He is only vaguely aware of his own steps in the direction of the house, sincerely hoping there is a convenient bed. 

There is, and even though one look tells Geralt it will never survive what he has planned it would mean letting go of Jaskier to pull the mattress onto the floor and that will never do. Instead he tumbles them onto it and pulls Jaskier down on top of him, somehow managing not to separate them in the process. 

“Geralt, what are you- no, this will never do, how are you planning to get out of all the layers you insist on wearing,” Jaskier complains between kisses. “You have no sense of seduction,” he adds, laughing when Geralt growls and hauls him to his feet again. 

“Seduction,” Geralt rumbles, trying to remove his armor as fast as possible which of course Jaskier ruins by trying to help. “What do you call the last decade?” 

“A clumsy attempt at best,” Jaskier replies with a wink, dodging when Geralt reaches out to swat at his ass. In all of his fantasies their coupling had been hot and fast, violent and intense. He hadn’t even conceived of the fact that it could also be _ fun _ . He strips out of his jacket but freezes before he gets any further, distracted by the way Geralt tugs off everything he is wearing from the waist up in one go and tosses it aside. 

“Hmmm, that sounds like a challenge.” Geralt surges forward and backs Jaskier up into a support beam. “You know I like a challenge,” he adds, reaching down to grab both of Jaskier’s wrists and bring them above his head. He holds them in one hand then palms Jaskier’s cloth covered erection with the other, grinning wickedly as Jaskier’s hips buck into the pressure. “Jaskier...how many times can you come in a row? Two? Three? Do you think you can keep up with me? I’m going to have you until you cry, until you beg me to let you rest.” He sucks a mark into the juncture of Jaskier’s neck. “Tell me you want me to,” he adds, reading complete surrender in everything he can sense but needing to hear it again to be sure. 

“Please,” Jaskier manages, feeling another rush of desire. He knows Geralt could take what he wants, but also knows that he never would. Knows that all of the control is his, and it is a heady thought indeed. “Geralt, yes, just get on with it already,” he replies, before his mouth is far too occupied for further speech. 

Geralt hardly knows where to start, is overwhelmed by the possibilities and how very many things he wants. Jaskier naked is at the top of the list though, so he may as well start there. He slides Jaskier’s jacket off of his shoulders, then grabs the seam of the shirt and pulls it off- or tries to, it’s a bit of a mess with Jaskier trying to help and their elbows getting in the way of each other. 

“Really? You’re hopeless at this, you’re definitely ruining my entire mental image of you being some kind of smooth sex god,” Jaskier laughs as Geratlt growls and tugs at where the sleeve is caught over his wrist. 

“Do you ever stop talking?” Geralt complains, though he knows the uncharacteristic smile in his tone rather ruins his usual gruff facade. 

“I’ve told you, I really don’t go in for that kind of thing,” Jaskier lilts with a wink. “In fact, I’m composing an ode to your shoulders as we speak, would you like to hear what I’ve- oh, fuck,” he squeaks out, letting his head bang against the wood as Geralt drags his pants down while sinking to his knees and sucks in his mostly hard cock in one go. His hands move instinctively to cradle Geralt’s head and he wants to tug him in by all of that gorgeous hair, but he’s not sure he’s allowed. 

  
“Mmmmh,” Geralt hums, nosing at Jaskier’s blonde curls and swirling his tongue. This is definitely the best way to shut the other man up. He takes it as a personal challenge to see how long he can keep it up for. It’s been a while, but he definitely remembers how much he likes the smooth slide, the feel of Jaskier thickening up against his tongue. Digging his fingers into the swell of Jaskier’s ass is something he could get used to as well. 

Jaskier writhes in place and tries to remain upright, but his knees are definitely threatening to buckle. He takes everything back, Geralt is a sex god after all. The suction, the things he does with his tongue and even a bit of teeth are inspired. As amazing as this is though, Jaskier is rather in a hurry to get Geralt naked and horizontal. “Bed, I want to touch you too. And why aren’t you naked yet?” 

“Of course you’d be bossy,” Geralt comments as he stands and immediately pulls Jaskier in for a filthy kiss. 

“You like it!” Geralt arches a brow and Jaskier amends, “Well you put up with it at least.” 

“I might like it,” Geralt counters as he backs up towards the bed, unceremoniously stripping the rest of the way and shocking himself with the coy tone. Surely Jaskier is the only person to bring out this side in him.

“Geralt you utter minx!” Jaskier marvels, nearly tripping himself as he kicks his pants free and attempts to tackle the Witcher back onto the bed. It only works because Geralt lets it, but that in itself is more telling than anything Geralt has done up to this point. He wants this, truly. Which is the last coherent thought Jaskier manages for a while, because Geralt is a seemingly endless expanse of firm muscle and warm skin and he wants so much, everything at once, and he doesn’t know where to start. 

Geralt finds Jaskier’s flailing unexpectedly endearing, and he can’t help but smile against the man’s lips as he grabs his hips and holds Jaskier steady to prevent him from squirming his way off the bed. “Shhh,” he gentles, sliding one hand down to get a fist around Jaskier’s erection. “If I get you off once, will you settle down?” 

“Settle? SETTLE? Have you seen you? I’m not certain you understand the absolute- I mean, Geralt this is me, naked with the hero of my famous and adored ballads- I’ve been singing about your prowess and stamina for  _ years _ and now -” Jaskier’s next words are muffled as Geralt shuts him up with the dirty, spit-slicked sort of kiss that promises hours of the best sort of debauched abandon and what are words, anyway? 

Geralt clutches at Jaskier with a grip that must border on painful but Jaskier seems to revel in it, makes a mess of wrapping his legs around Geralt’s thighs and bucking up into him with nothing akin to the finesse he tries so hard to exude. It’s amazing, it’s everything, the way he feels Jaskier just give over to him, the complete lack of fear or uncertainty in his pulse or scent. He wants more, wants this desperate and unfocused version of his generally composed companion. Unfortunately, nothing he has planned is going to go smoothly if he doesn’t get up to find the oil he suspects is in one of the pots on a shelf above the fireplace. He growls in frustration, bites Jaskier’s lower lip hard enough to bruise but not quite draw blood, then forces himself to move. “Stay,” he orders as he crosses the room and is thankfully correct on the second guess. 

“Oh good man, yes,” Jaskier manages as he plants his legs on the mattress and lets his knees fall open, clearly offering. 

Geralt considers for a moment, but no, he doesn’t trust himself to exercise any kind of restraint at this moment and what he wants stands a good chance of hurting Jaskier, and that can never happen. Instead, he sets the pot next to the bed and dips his right fingers in, then kneels between Jaskier’s legs and reaches out to slick up his cock which is really quite lovely. And he can never, ever voice that aloud, he’d never hear the end of it. “Maybe later,” he promises, watching in fascination as Jaskier arches up into his grip and lets his eyes fall closed in pleasure. He takes the moment to coat his fingers again and reach back to slide two of them inside himself, just enough to ease the way. It’s more for Jaskier’s comfort than his own, truly, he’s not opposed to a bit of pain and he knows it will fade quickly. 

Jaskier was expecting the teasing, or more likely direct, press of fingers between his legs so he is utterly unprepared when Geralt sizes him and sinks straight down onto his cock with no warning at all. His eyes fly open and his hands clutch at Geralt’s ass which is exactly as firm as he’d imagined but he can’t focus on that because his entire universe narrows to the feeling of his cock being enveloped in the tight heat of Geralt’s body. “Fuck,” he manages, “Oh, fuck, Geralt, what are you- you’re going to hurt yourself you crazy- hnng,” is all he can get out and he is certain it’s only shock that keeps him from coming immediately as Geralt flexes his muscles and grinds down in a little circle. 

“Better than hurting you,” Geralt replies, embarrassed by the way his voice shakes with unexpected emotion. “And- Witcher healing. This is one of the lesser known perks,” he adds before leaning down to capture Jaskier’s mouth again and begin riding him in earnest. It hurts sharp and bright for all of half a minute before the pleasure sets in and it’s worth it, so very, very worth it. Jaskier is a whimpering, moaning mess beneath him, clawing at his skin and doing his best to cant his hips up with Geralt’s movements and it’s so cute that he’s trying to keep up at all. Geralt grabs both scrabbling hands and pins them above Jaskier’s head with one fist, and uses his free hand to brace himself against the mattress so he can really get a rhythm going. Despite the blood rushing hot in his ears and the almost harsh abandon of his hips rising and driving forward hard enough to shift Jaskier towards the headboard, he can sense nothing but a desire for more from the beautiful man beneath him. “Where is that voice now, my bard?” he pants, “Have I actually managed to silence you?” He’s not even sure where this impulse to tease and goad is coming from- another thing he’s sure he can blame Jaskier for, entirely. 

“Yes. No. Fuck- and yes, I know that’s your line. I’m going to compose an ode to your hips, your thighs, your cock. Oh like that, yes,” Jaskier rambles, tugging at his wrist in an attempt to get at Geralt’s bobbing erection.”Let me touch you, Geralt.” 

“No,” Geralt replies, gripping Jaskier’s wrists tighter and twisting his body to the left, rolling them until Jaskier is positioned above him. He hopes the fact that he managed to keep them joined is sufficiently impressive, and takes the moment of surprise to lace their fingers together on either side of his head. “Like this. Make me come like this,” he rumbles, enthralled with the way Jaskier's eyes go impossibly wider as he gets his knees arranged beneath him so he is angled to drive into Geralt’s body. 

Jaskier grips Geralt’s hands tight enough to bruise as he snaps his hips forward, trying to ignore his own impending release as he studies Geralt’s face to find the movements he likes best. He finally has it, pressing deep and circling his hips as he watches those amber eyes go unfocused, lost in pleasure and he knows he must be getting close, they both are, can hardly believe they’ve lasted this long. “Geralt,” he whispers, his breath a barely there kiss. “You are the most infuriating man I have ever met and I could not possibly love you more.” 

Geralt’s eyes snap back into focus just in time so see Jaskier’s face awash in pleasure as he pulses deep inside him, and a spike of emotion accompanied by those words has him arching and coming as well, letting go of Jaskier’s hands to gather him in and hold him close, pressing kisses into his neck. He...hadn’t expected that. That Jaskier likes him, puts up with him, desires him is difficult to understand but something he can process. That Jaskier loves him he’d even guessed, but hearing it makes it real...and he doesn’t even know what to do with that. It releases something feral and needy and long ignored from deep within him, and all he can do is hold Jaskier close as he shakes with some unfamiliar sensation. 

“Geralt? Geralt are you okay? Did I break you?” Jaskier mumbles into Geralt’s shoulder, uncertain. He’s never felt anything like this- content, and overwhelmed, and safe, and also terrified. Was that too much? He knows it’s more than he can hope that Geralt feels the same, but now it’s out there and he can’t take it back. 

“You broke me the moment we met,” Geralt replies, and voicing this somehow feels like the bravest thing he’s ever done. He closes his eyes for a moment, feels almost as if he should take one of his potions to continue. “You took a piece of me for yourself, and every time you leave… I don’t feel whole without you. Is that love? Is wanting to touch you so badly it hurts love? I would kill for you, die for you, do anything to keep you safe. I want you more than I have ever wanted anything. I know I’m not good enough for you, but I want to be. You deserve to be happy, to be loved, and I have never loved anyone unless this is love and Jaskier, is it?" He feels a fool for asking but he needs to know. He presses a kiss to Jaskier's temple and waits, knowing that the answer determines the rest of his life.

“Oh Geralt,” Jaskier murmurs, feeling a pang of sadness accompanied by an unfamiliar sense of actually being the one who holds all of the power. Geralt is completely vulnerable in this moment, and Jaskier wonders if this is what his Witcher feels when he is defending Jaskier from something that could easily destroy him. This intense need to protect, to prove himself worthy of the other man’s trust. “Love is not always some grand and epic thing, like in my stories. Those tales sell of course, so I use them, but love is in the small things. It creeps up on you slowly, sometimes so slowly you don’t realize when it happened at all.” He props himself up on his elbows. “Look at me,” he encourages. 

Geralt does, letting his hands slide up and down Jaskier’s sweat-slicked skin to distract himself from the intensity in his eyes. It’s very nearly too much, to be seen like this. He’s still nervous, but Jaskier is smiling and he isn’t leaving so maybe everything will be okay. 

“When we share a bed, you always sleep closest to the door to keep me safe. If we are running low on food, you tell me Witcher’s can survive on less so you let me eat first. You make excuses about needing to stretch your legs and let me ride Roach when I’m tired. You let me wear your coat when it’s cold, and make some excuse to stop at an inn when I know you would be fine outside for the night. You didn’t let me die from the djinn. You let me go, Geralt. You don’t try to control me. You find a thousand excuses to touch me, but you never push, never ask for anything in return. You have loved me for years, Geralt, you just didn’t realize what it was.” He smiles and kisses Geralt again, teasing. “You’re lucky I find it cute when you’re stupid.” 

It takes Geralt a few seconds to process Jaskier’s words, and he supposes he does blink up at him a bit stupidly before he recovers. “I let you ride Roach because it’s easier to stare at your ass when it’s at eye level,” he counters, suddenly feeling light and bold and  _ happy _ in a way he has never allowed himself to feel before. “Also, you only sing when you’re walking, have you noticed?” 

“Oh you are such a little shit,” Jaskier accuses, reaching down to tickle Geralt’s side in a move he would  _ never  _ have dared before in all their years of bed sharing. To his shock and delight, Geralt actually laughs and squirms beneath him. “Oh sweet Melitele you’re  _ ticklish _ !”

Geralt doesn’t actually know how to respond, considering he’s never felt anything like this before. How could he have known? Who would ever have dared to try before now? “I’m not,” he protests, trying to grab Jaskier’s wrists and hold him in place but he can’t seem to control his limbs while Jaskier grins and digs his clever fingers into all of the sensitive places he hadn’t known existed. “Maybe a little,” he concedes as Jaskier finds a particularly evil spot beneath his ribs. “Stop it,” he pants half-heartedly. 

“Never! This is my new favorite thing,” Jaskier declares, knowing he will never tire of seeing Geralt this uninhibited. 

“Is it?” Geralt grins and flips them again, takes advantage of Jaskier’s surprise to bite at one pert nipple. Jaskier gasps and arches up into the sensation. “Hmm,” Geralt responds, plucking at both nipples with his fingers as he slides down to lick a sloppy stripe from just beneath Jaskier’s testicles and all the way up to the tip of his already stirring cock. 

“I may have more than one favorite thing,” Jaskier amends, threading his fingers into Geralt’s hair. 

“I’m going to give you all of them,” Geralt promises. “Besides, that was just one...I want you at least three more times before I let you sleep.” 

“Only three? What happened to that famed Witcher stamina?” Jaskier teases, hooking his feet behind Geralt’s ass and pulling him in closer. 

“Oh love, you should know better than to challenge me,” Geralt growls before lifting Jaskier’s hips high enough that he can flick his tongue lightly over the soft ring of muscle. The resulting strangled cry is intensely gratifying, and the fact that he’d called Jaskier ‘love’ registers only moments later. Such a small word, but it’s everything. It really is the little things. 


End file.
